Spontoon Island
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Extracts from a Diary
by Amelia Bourne-Phipps
-edited by Simon Barber-
30 May, 1936 to 31 May, 1936



Saturday 30th May, 1936

Oh my.

Dear Diary: if I have learned one thing since arriving on Spontoon, it is that life is full of surprises.

Looking at our timetables for Friday, who could have possibly guessed the consequences?  It all started innocuously enough, with Maria coming in at lunchtime from the miniature Reuter’s branch next to the telegraph relay offices. She waved her maps excitedly, and as we pushed our plates aside we looked at the unfolding events – none of them earth-shattering or really newsworthy in themselves, unless one already knew what to look for.  The first thing she spotted was a report of that (in)famous vessel the Direwolf, now definitely in the Nimitz Sea and heading this way. At least, it had been seen fifty miles North of Cranium Island yesterday, heading Southwards – always something to make shipping nervous. The Direwolf claims to be an independent anti-piracy vessel, but by all accounts it specialises in raiding smuggling craft since they are full of easily “fenced” items and nobody will be calling out their Navy as a consequence.

Apart from that, a merchant ship spotted two known South Sea Pirate vessels also heading Eastwards in this direction at speed – and despite being caught alone and laden in the straits between two of the Mildendo Isles, the merchant was not even approached. Maria deduces they were going somewhere under higher orders and had no time for everyday pillaging. The R.I.N.S. base at Moon Island scrambled its seaplanes and they have been on patrol ever since, but the Pacific is an awfully big place.

Certainly, we agreed that things seemed to be counting down to some sort of climax. But we had to leave her to it, as both Molly and I had a navigation flight booked in the Sea Osprey as soon as Jasbir and Sophie D’ Artagnan came in and refuelled from theirs.  By one o’clock we were on the slipway, checking the Sea Osprey over and signing for it under the watchful gaze of Miss Wildford. As ever, we take full tanks of fuel for seven hours even if we were only planning to be gone for two – and every item on the checklist was very thoroughly checked. Then, into the cockpit and the usual wait for the marine air terminal to clear us, getting us onto the main seaplane lane just ahead of a Dornier X.

I must say, it is a lot easier to navigate “indoors” with the closed cockpit, than trying to hold the map out of the slipstream in the back of a Tiger Moth, with the clumsy Gosport hoods and speaking tubes to try and talk through. The Sea Osprey is very quiet, with the engines back in the wings and no prop wash blowing back over the cockpit making a normal conversation possible.  One hardly needs flying costume at all, and unless climbing high it could be flown this time of year in the regular shirt and shorts. Needless to say we were fully equipped with flight suits and helmets, all the kit right down to those parachutist’s gravity knives Maria got us last year.  The flight plan was to head straight North past Orpington and then turn North-West towards the Kanim Islands, taking a timed photograph of Lobopeete atoll to prove we had done it. Then we were scheduled to land and swap positions, with Molly navigating us home and photographing the coast of Orpington. It looked challenging, but nothing much to write in the diary – we would be back with plenty of time to clean up before the evening meal. Everything went to schedule, with very fine visibility all the way to Orpington and twenty minutes past it, with us both in a very cheerful mood and enjoying the ride.
Of course, there was a fair amount of shipping in the regular lanes and a scattering of fishing boats around Orpington – but once we had left those behind, the Pacific looked decidedly empty. We were surprised to see two vessels right next to each other, about twenty miles from the nearest of the Kanim Islands – even more so when Molly spotted one was a warship!  We immediately thought this must be the Direwolf, possibly raiding these waters. All thoughts of the navigation exercise went out as Molly banked us steeply and brought us in for a closer look, ready to start weaving if they opened fire. I agreed that we had to see what was happening, and then radio Spontoon to let them know. We have standing instructions about helping emergencies, and that definitely seemed to fit the bill.

Things turned out to be rather different when we flew closer with my camera ready for taking evidence. For one thing, the two vessels were steaming along quite comfortably side by side about a hundred yards apart, with nobody doing any attacking that we could see. The Direwolf is a heavy cruiser with two funnels – and though manifestly a warship, this was definitely not it. In fact, it was hardly even a destroyer; I have seen yachts nearly that size although they tend not to be armed.  There was no flag flying from the mast, and as we zoomed overhead I noticed it seemed to be decidedly damaged, with obvious emergency welds and repairs. The name “Parsifal” was just visible in rather faded gothic lettering on the bows.

I was quite surprised at the sight – but more so when I took a close look at what it was escorting. This was a fairly typical medium-sized freighter, with a few unexpected things – such as the lack of national colours, and what looked like improvised Maxim guns on railing mounts. But it was what it was towing that had my tail bottling out and Molly jinking the Sea Osprey in shock as she saw and recognised it.

We have heard about experiments with seaplane tenders, with them towing a floating mat providing shelter that a light aircraft can “beach” on to be hauled up by the cranes, even if there is no proper deck hangar. This was the first time we had seen it done. But the aircraft sheltered on the mat was one we had certainly seen before, as even if the markings had been removed there were very few Pemberton-Billings “Nighthawks” ever reworked as floatplanes. We both know who flies it:
Lars Nordstrom!

Molly pulled up and we circled at about a thousand feet while we worked out what to do.  This definitely looked as if Maria was right, and Lars is returning home from Fiume after the sort of shopping trip that one does not declare at Customs. There are at least three ships in the area trying to stop him. If the authorities on Spontoon approve of the trip, either they do not want to be seen to be involved or they do not know exactly where he is – otherwise there could be a squadron of armed Ospreys flying him air cover at this range.

We were arguing what to do, when as our circle brought us West something happened to force our decision. On the horizon we saw the wakes of two fast vessels heading towards us; there was no doubt we needed to investigate. Molly opened the throttles and we found out what our top speed really is: two hundred and fifty knots flat-out, about the fastest we have ever been outside a dive! It was just as well we did.

About twenty miles from the freighter and escort there were two speedy and similarly unmarked ships approaching, that Molly says are the same model as coastguard cutters. They were definitely armed – and definitely hostile, as the winking of gunfire showed. Anyone ill-disciplined enough to open fire unprovoked and at impossible range just has to be a pirate! It is the first time anyone has shot at me – may everyone in future miss by as much.  That decided things. We had no idea what frequency the freighter’s radio was using, but we had to warn it. Had this been an “ordinary” pirate attack the thing to do would be to scream for help to Spontoon, and hope the Rain Islands air fleet have a squadron patrolling somewhere this side of Moon Island. But we have no idea if the authorities are acknowledging this delivery, and if not I doubt Mr. Sapohatan would much appreciate us telling everyone with a radio about it. There is the Direwolf in these waters as well, which is surely listening out on the air bands with direction-finders ready to swivel their ears this way.

Molly brought us in low between the two ships almost at stalling speed, while I opened the signalling locker and got the Aldis lamp out. There was time for little more than “SOS” and a few naval flag codes – “You are standing into danger” and “Enemy action ahead” can happily be compressed in six-flash groupings. I saw a figure on the bridge of the freighter wave acknowledgement, and then we had to hit the throttles again to go around.  Of course, the sensible thing to do having warned them would be to head back to Spontoon and pass the warning along. But without using the radio it would be an hour’s flight away, then the problem of who to contact, and how – writing to Post Box Nine (even first-class) would hardly do, and we have no other way of contacting those authorities! We must ask if they have a matching telephone number. One thing I could do: I sent a standard message to the control tower with our location and a weather report – but finished it with “all’s looking as happy as our friend Helen on the high seas”. Hopefully that will get in the transcripts if anyone remembers to check them, and at least now folk know where to start looking for us.

With Molly at the controls, I could hardly stop her from bringing us into land behind the freighter, which was conveniently steaming into the wind. There was little swell, and we are quite practiced at ocean landings now: Molly caught us just on a wave as we touched down, and inside a minute we were taxiing onto the towed mat behind the ship, while they let a ladder down.  I hardly knew what to expect. What we found was an almost skeleton crew, many of whom were bandaged and all looked definitely the worse for wear. At close quarters the ship had seen better days, and many recent ones had been quite turbulent to judge by the bullet scars and cracked windows. The captain, a grizzled sea-otter, was grateful for our warnings and increased speed; that is ten knots rather than eight, and about the best he said the old engine could do.  I turned round at a familiar voice – and there was Lars, having just followed us up the ladder from the gunboat’s pinnace. He looked worn but healthy, and I confess my tail twitched slightly at the sight of him. Molly sprang into his arms like a jungle cat on her prey, and indeed she has missed him sorely this past half year. Her tail went right aside like a key turning in a lock.  There was very little time for greetings, as we repeated our warning and Lars’ ears fell. In half an hour the two cutters would catch up with us here – from what he described, they had been fighting all the way across the Pacific, with a wide range of unofficial local “talent” lined up to take a swing at them as they went past. Only the unexpected factor of having “obtained” a 1915 vintage Austrian gunboat had kept them relatively intact.
The trouble was, breakdowns and casualties had reduced the crews to barely what was needed to keep the engines working – Lars had been piloting the “Parsifal” for twenty hours, and it was down to the last few rounds of large calibre ammunition. The most conspicuous gun on the bow end could only be described now as a five-centimetre quick-firing Quaker Cannon, as it is completely out of rounds. As we suspected, he cannot call for official help from Spontoon – if there was time something could be arranged to “accidentally” discover the pirates, but we were running out of time by the minute. He gave orders for the freighter to head straight for Spontoon, and grimly announced he was going to lead the enemy off into the Kanim Islands for as long as he could. He gave Molly a fierce hug, and kissed her farewell, suggesting we head back as fast as we can and say we saw an unidentified gun battle; the authorities can investigate that without any fear of compromising themselves. What is coming, he admits, they have little chance of getting out of with their hides intact.

Of course, Molly was having none of that. She had not come out here to kiss him farewell forever – where he went, she went. I could see her eyes lighting up, as she pointed out she is quite good with artillery and he needs every paw he can get.

I could have taken Lars’ suggestion myself, flown back to safety and come out with a rescue party from Spontoon to see if there was anyone left to rescue. It would have been the sensible thing to do. But I was definitely not going to run away and leave Molly behind! I am not too bad at self-defence myself, and decided to see it through. Lars looked at us both steadily and told us the folk pursuing were not the sort to take prisoners – at least, one would regret being taken alive, especially for us. Although our ears drooped, Molly stuck to her decision, and I was hardly going to back out. Abandoning one’s friends is absolutely Not Done.

Five minutes later we had secured the Sea Osprey to the landing mat and watched from the deck of the Parsifal as it headed Southwards, towards as much safety as it could get. I had hoped it would be safe once it reached the shipping lanes, but Lars grimly commented that there were two boatloads of Moro pirates heading our way who would not care in the slightest if a crowded tour boat saw the whole thing – indeed, they would be very happy to increase their booty that way as well as disposing of inconvenient witnesses.

The Parsifal was a lot smaller than I had thought, and I was amazed it had managed to cross the Pacific. True, as for fuel, food and water it had the larger freighter to resupply from, and by Lars’ accounts they had managed to refuel and take on water in Ceylon. The price of that had been being spotted and forced to fight their way through the Andaman Islands – to our sorrow he told us his colleague Boto had died in that battle. I will never forget Boto Pikida, a fine falcon gentleman and the first feathered person I got to know in that way.

Still, although the Parsifal was in poor shape, the ship was far from helpless. There was a three-centimetre shielded cannon at the stern with sixty rounds left, and two old M1908 water-jacketed Maxims on the railings with cases full of ammunition. Molly’s tail had gone sideways at the first sight. As to crew, there were only five left, four of whom were in the engine-room. Lars had been steering, following the freighter which had to navigate for both of them since the previous skirmish of the Malacca Straits wrecked the Parsifal’s chart room. So that left one crewman and us to defend the ship – the engine-room crew could come up in emergency, but the ship would not keep underway twenty minutes without them. I should think the regular crew must be at least thirty per watch, and even including us it makes less that ten.

It was quite a sight. The old gunboat made all possible steam, the smokestack sending out a plume of black smoke that was visible for miles. Of course, that was the idea – both to get us nearer land as fast as possible, and to attract both our pursuers. If one went after the freighter that would be the end of it – by making more smoke Lars hoped to convince them both ships were still together until it was too late.

While I climbed up to the lookout post forwards of the funnel, Molly went down to look through the ship with Lars and see what could be done in the way of last-ditch defences. It was suddenly rather lonely up there. When I had woken up that morning, I had no idea that before sundown I would be outnumbered on the high seas by desperate Oriental pirates by whom it is unwise to be captured alive! Being best friends with Molly is liable to lead a girl into interesting situations - as they say in the Loris and Hartebeest comedies, “Another fine mess you got me into.” For five minutes we made about three quarters speed, heading at about fifteen knots for the Kanim Islands. Then I spotted twin smears of grey smoke to the West, with the cutters’ engines being powerful diesels rather than our old coal boilers. I shouted down to the bridge and Lars went to flank speed, about twenty knots but nothing that would more than delay the inevitable encounter.  In another ten minutes they had taken definite shape and were barely two miles away, closing rapidly. From my lookout I could see the decks were crowded, not indeed by the sort of romantic “pirate” one sees posing for Spontoon tourists but by folk in drab and practical outfits that looked as if they could carry a lot of lethal hardware. There must have been forty of them that I could see on the decks, and although the ships did not seem to have any heavy armament I spotted half a dozen Lewis guns.

Standing up on the observation platform suddenly seemed a rather precarious thing to do, considering that with enough Lewis guns one can get by without accuracy given enough ammunition and enthusiasm. In ten seconds I was down out of sight with the Parsifal’s plating protecting me: Looking at the older impact splashes it was a relief to see it is at least small-arms proofed. It is an unpleasant sensation to think that I might not be the only one with a M1918 Mauser “T-Gewehr”, though Molly was sitting on an opened crate behind Lars at the wheel, putting some components together I did not recognise at first. She had one box of blunt metal cones about the size of an ice-cream cone which she was fiddling with and screwing onto dull metal cylinders from out of the box, the size and shape of baked-bean cans. Despite everything she grinned, and pointed to a translated manual for “vulcanite fuzes, super-quick acting” which she says were meant to detonate even hitting radio wires or rigging. With a pencil she demonstrated how to jam the mechanism open to prime it as if it had already been launched and was in the air.

In any other situation I would have backed away very slowly, and ran for safety when outside the room. Unfortunately there was no safety to be had outside, and precious little inside as Molly assembled the fuzes and gaine charges intended for large naval shells – enough Great War vintage trotyl to give an artilleryman grey fur at the sight. I sincerely hope the stores at Trieste were well maintained, as from all we hear it is very unlike a fine wine and gets definitely worse tempered over the years. But if one of them had gone off I suppose at least she would have died happy, to look at the expression on her face – having Lars at her side and a large pile of unstable munitions ready to use with nobody to tell her not to.

The bridge was rather a shambles already with welded repairs, cracked instrument glasses and scorch marks showing where an earlier encounter had almost finished the ship. But Lars was as cool and collected as any ferry pilot on an everyday crossing: even when the mongoose crewman on the bows shouted the pirates were splitting formation to board us at both sides, he just nodded and called down the speaking tube to abandon the engine-room and repel boarders.  Dear Diary. I thought it was bad enough on our Vostok trip, with the Bolsheviks bombing us and the Pelmeni hunting them through the woods. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the next ten minutes as long as I live.

I must say, Molly’s enthusiasm has paid off in terms of skill and style. Lars warned calmly to get ready, as the usual pirate tactics were to rush from both sides at once. He lashed the wheel on course, noting we were twenty miles from the nearest atoll, and checked a pair of polished metal mirrors he had rigged to let him see over the port and starboard sides. From the bridge I could see the mongoose crewman dive into the small fore turret although I could not see why, having been told it was out of ammunition.

Boarding a vessel travelling at twenty knots on the open ocean is not the easiest of things –for which we can all be grateful! Lars nodded calmly and pointed out that from the last encounter the opposition knew all the Parsifal’s main armament had been silenced; hopefully they do NOT know that while the big bow gun had run out of ammunition the stern “pom-pom” had only jammed and is back in service although there is nobody to crew it. He gave his orders – and indeed we both jumped to it as we could hear the clang of grappling irons on the railings.  If the Parsifal had open deck railings like a cruise ship, we would never have made it. But it was a military vessel with half-inch plating up to waist height, and while gunfire raked the top both Molly and I rolled out of the bridge doorway cradling a two-pound gaine charge with its fuze set to blow at the slightest knock. Although we could not see over the sides, thanks to his mirrors Lars could – and at his shout we both hefted them overboard like putting a rather ungainly shot.  Oh my. From what I pieced together later, both of us landed the charges on the decks of the smaller cutters with the first shot, packed with folk swarming up the ropes. It was messy. We had time to throw another two each, and at the second the entire ship shuddered as if we had run into a shoal. Then half a dozen pirates were on our decks, and things became very busy. Lars yelled something in a language I did not recognise: later he explained he said the whole ship was full of explosive, and with a dozen gaine charges rolling around unfuzed on the deck that give the pirates pause before deciding not to open up with their broomhandle Mausers and “trench brooms”. As they all carried extra machetes and the like, that was only a slight improvement.  I hardly remember exactly what I did. Two years of self-defence lessons somehow took over, boosted by the very certain knowledge that this was playing for keeps. I had the advantage of not just being shaken by high explosives – indeed some of our assailants’ ears and noses were bleeding, and they could not have been in top shape. One mongoose came at me with a Kris sword, which I stepped under and used one of the Jude-Jitsu blows I was warned about never practicing on full strength – which I did and he went right over, collapsing in a heap by the bridge door.  Lars was amazing to watch, not that I had time to note details. I know he is a dancer, and with his job I guessed he had done this kind of thing before – but he was just one blur of hooves and hands, and in one occasion showing the practical use of horns. Three pirates were down – but I saw two more crossing the deck behind him, oriental felines with machetes the size of longswords.  Yelling a warning I sprang in behind them – before they could turn I had practiced another of the Jude-Jitsu moves and discovered that the favourite move Beryl talks about actually does what it says. There was no time to think about it as a large puma dived my direction – and I confirmed the Songmark issue steel toed boot has other uses than protecting against dropped engine blocks.  Though it looked more like a circus stunt when we first were shown it, the “Legionnaire’s trick” I have not used since Krupmark actually works jolly well if one can get the timing just right.  From the bows there was a burst of automatic fire that made me duck until I realised where it was from. The big cannon may be out of ammunition but it has an armoured shield and Lars’ crew had rigged a Lewis of their own to shoot from behind its protection. Three more of the pirates were caught in the fire and went down – and for the moment our deck was free.  As I got my breath back I noticed that the ship was listing slightly. One of our charges had missed the cutter alongside and fallen into the water between the two ships, which was bad news –we had practically torpedoed ourselves! But the starboard pirate vessel had the worst of it, as even without sticking my head over the side I could see it dropping behind, already noticeably down at the bows. The other one has pulled clear, not wanting any more of the same – though when we did a shouted roll-call Lars grimly announced two of his crew were dead and another wounded. There was no sign of the pirates we had flattened, and I think they had been thrown overboard. As for the ones our crew had hit – there were definite signs where they had been; I had heard of folk being cut to pieces by machine-guns, and now know it really happens.

Hails of bullets were ricocheting off the armour as the nearer pirate cutter came in again with half a dozen Lewises firing from fifty yards range. Our own vessel was listing increasingly, and with no crew or time free for any sort of damage control, even I could see that the poor Parsifal was not going to get to the Kanim Islands. Things looked definitely bleak – until Molly made her move.  How she managed to get across the deck through a hail of ricochets I will never know: at Songmark they tell us that although Providence often looks after fools and drunks we should never expect it to help us. But she made it uninjured to the aft gun, which had been no use while the two pirates had been right alongside us and below our deck level.

Oh my. Whether it was beginner’s luck I can hardly say, but I doubt she missed with a single one-pound shell. The first twenty rounds swept all life off the decks of the intact cutter, and the next twenty went into its waterline – a wooden rather than steel hull, smashing holes in it one could have put a steamer trunk through. The last she took her time with, hitting the one that was already sinking some two hundred yards astern of us and setting it on fire. Both vessels were dead in the water, with any lifeboats surely been smashed to splinters. I could see the fins of sharks already circling.
For a minute there was almost calm as we panted for breath, our tongues out and hearts pounding with exertion. Then Lars called his surviving three healthy crew over and they hurriedly went below decks to check on the damage while I did what I could for the injured one, a muskrat called Kovic. We have read the books and passed the tests in theory, but this was the first gunshot wound I have had to treat. Luckily it had passed through his leg without breaking the bone, but it was bleeding awfully and my own fur was soon soaked as well as I packed in gauze and held down the pressure points.

It was a very strange ten minutes. Molly had come over to help, with a sort of wild fascination in her eyes. I had thought she might be in shock about what we had to do – but though she was panting hard, by her expression she looked as if she had won the lottery. I had her take turns on holding the dressings tight on Kovic’s leg, and pointed out this was what it all came to. I fear I hardly discouraged her.

By the time Lars came back the ship was listing at twenty degrees, and with a shrug he announced that there was nothing to be done but abandon her – three yards of seam were opened and there were too few of us left to fight the damage. While the rest of his crew lowered the two lifeboats he helped us get Kovic onto a stretcher; the bleeding had slowed but he was in a rather bad way. If we were outside Casino Island hospital I would have said he had every chance, with transfusions and such available – but out there, it was a different story.  The only proper lifeboat was the larger of the two, with a locker equipped with first-aid supplies, food and water. We helped stow Kovic on that and they cast off, leaving me and Molly to grab what supplies we could from the galley while Lars got the second boat away. He was the last one to leave the ship; as Captain he almost went down with it as he leaped clear and swam out to us.

A sad sight. The Parsifal went down in two minutes, the boilers exploding in a huge gout of steam as the water reached the engine room and fragments splashed down around us while we rowed frantically away from the sinking ship. At two hundred yards we felt safe enough from the undertow to stop and rest to watch the last of it vanish beneath the waves.  I would hardly have thought of Lars as sentimental, but he took off his cap as he saw the last bubbles rising. A sad end for a gallant ship, he told us, but at least a fighting finish. The Parsifal had been seized with the port of Fiume, and kept on maintenance status for fifteen years as a coastal defence craft, although as Fiume is now far from any non-Italian ports there was little interest in it. One final voyage across the world after fifteen years tied up against a dock was not a bad way to go, rather than being broken up for scrap as it had been scheduled for. It is a long way from the Adriatic.

That aside, we got down to practicalities. Our boat was an eighteen-footer with four sets of oars, and after checking the compass we started rowing. It was about an hour before sunset, and our best guess put us ten miles from the nearest land. Which could be far worse of course, but on scale that is like being half-way across the English Channel heading to France! The good news was the ocean currents are flowing the right way, and in a day or so would wash us into the Kanims regardless – or onto a reef, more likely.

The other boat pulled alongside and Lars gave them their orders, to head straight for Main Island Spontoon; having the only outboard motor between us, they have to get Kovic to hospital as soon as possible. Merely aiming for the nearest land and hoping for rescue as we would need to do would probably be too late for him. With a wave they departed, and in a few minutes we were all alone on the rolling ocean.

I must say, as we started steadily rowing, I found myself shaking in reaction as I had time to think about it. There had been no chance to imagine things going wrong, but as we put our backs into the work I definitely did, and the consequences. I also imagined what our Tutors must be thinking right now, assuming the freighter has not made radio contact with Spontoon. True, we were carrying enough fuel to get us to Vostok, and one can put the Sea Osprey down anywhere –but the search aircraft must be alerted already. They know the position we last radioed from, but we are already twelve miles from there and heading out all the time.  It was almost dark before we came within sight of land: the Kanims are low-lying atolls with no major hills and are hard to spot from a small boat with no mast to climb. What with the landward wind and currents, we decided it was safer to try and get ashore straight away rather than risk being blown ashore in the middle of the night: we had a sea anchor in the boat but that hardly helps in an ocean current. So we passed the water bottles round and made a final effort, with Lars just managing to steer us through a gap in the reef in the very last of the light, before we pulled into a calm lagoon and almost collapsed at the oars for ten minutes, panting for breath.  Luckily the moon was almost full and we could see well enough to make a dry landfall and pull the boat up the beach. From what we could see there was not exactly a jungle, but certainly bushes and a grove of coconut palms, though no lights or signs of life to be seen. There are a lot of little atolls around here, and though this might be the one the first-years spent last week on it is probably not. Anyway, it was so dark that if they had left us a mound of unwanted emergency rations, the only way we would have found them would be stumbling over the tins.  Lars was as weary as the rest of us, having been piloting the Parsifal all last night, but we just managed to pull the supplies up into the first grove of trees. Ten minutes work with our gravity knives cut enough foliage to make a good enough bed, or rather nest on the ground under the branches – and then all three of us almost literally fell over asleep.  I hardly know how to put this. Molly was the first to wake up, as when I stirred at the first hint of dawn she greeted me quietly, looking more thoughtful than usual. Lars was sleeping peacefully and after all his hard work his scent was very – entrancing, even in the open air. Molly looked from one to the other of us and thanked me for saving his life. I did point out I was not going to have run out on her – and once the pirates closed in I had little choice in the matter; I would have done the same for the sea-otter captain of the freighter who I had never met before.  Molly agreed that I probably would have – but the fact is that I did save Lars. She looked me in the eye and suggested a certain arrangement that had my ears blushing. I have heard that in ancient days some folk such as deer and sheep had rather different family… arrangements, but although Molly and I happily share some precious things such as my Sand Flea, there are limits.  She twitched an ear, looked down at the sleeping stag and quietly commented it would be nothing new for me. Well, I could hardly deny it, but that one time on Krupmark I had a snout full of catnip and was hardly in my usual state of mind.

Rather than discuss it, I went down to the beach in the paling starlight to try and wash my fur clean. It was awfully matted with Kovic’s blood, but a scrubbing with coral sand and vigorous cold seawater brushing got the worst of it off and cleared my head slightly. I would have thought Molly would have been far more likely to think up elaborate fates involving detonating cord for any other girl as much as looking at Lars. I did help save him, but I helped save the rest of the crew and Kovic too I hope. Anyway she knows I am almost Tailfast and very happily so to Jirry, or will be in three weeks.

It was still dark under the trees and Lars was fast asleep, indeed one could hardly blame him for sleeping all day after what he has been through. He doesn’t snore, which is nice. Molly seemed to be asleep again so I decided to try and get another hour in before the rigors of the day, pressing in for warmth against the dawn breeze. Though we do a lot of exercise I have not been rowing much and my back muscles were awfully sore after the two hard hours of the evening before. Our leaf nest seemed as snug and cosy a bed as I have ever tried, though after yesterday anything short of hard rock or freezing mud would look welcome. The deer scent was really very pleasant, and I let my snout fill with it as I lay down to catch another forty winks.  Dear Diary: there are other things than catnip that have the same effect. Surviving a highly lethal attack seems to do that for me, as I found out when Prad Phao rescued me from the barracuda. At least this time I will not have to worry about the results, as my overnight bag with Native Precautions travels everywhere with me these days. The plain fact is that I awoke again rather later than Lars and Molly, having been a very poor chaperone to them (as folk would see it at home) and in a mood that would hardly listen to sensible advice. Helen and I have often acted as each other’s chaperones, but of course on those occasions we had different escorts.  One can quite see how stags in ancient times managed. I am sure that despite Lars being tired out, if there had been another two of us with him they would not have been disappointed. Oh my.

When the sun came up we breakfasted on the emergency rations from the lifeboat, plus from a few boxes we had grabbed on the way out of the Parsifal. One of them was a rare delicacy that Lars had brought from Europe, a traditional Nordic preserve that he said was made by treating dried cod with wood lye until it turns transparent and gelatinous *. Fascinating! Decidedly an acquired taste, as Molly put it. I can quite believe the Spontoon shops do not stock it.  Of course, the next thing we had to do was find out where we were, and after digging a twenty-foot “SOS” deeply in the sand where the low morning sunlight will pick it out to any search aircraft, I climbed a coconut tree to take a look. It was a pretty view but not entirely encouraging: our islet was about half a mile across and the grove of palms was its only highlight. Maria’s parachutist knife came in most useful again as one can open it one-pawed and cut down coconuts while holding fast with the other paw.
I could see some larger islands a few miles to the North, and we made ready the boat to row around and search for signs of habitation. As it turned out we did not have to – just as we were packing the coconuts under the seats as extra rations there was the welcome sound of an aircraft engine, which rapidly resolved itself into a Rain Island naval Osprey, the stubby winged conventional sort. Rescue! The pilot spotted our “SOS” and us waving on the shore; just as well, as it was the other of the Parsifal’s boats that had the full emergency kit including the flare gun.  The seaplane landed in the lagoon and picked us up: evidently the freighter had radioed something of the situation to the proper authorities who had been searching since first light. By ten o’clock we were in the naval station on Moon Island, almost wishing we had stayed out for another night on the islands. Lars was taken away to talk to the relevant folk (we determinedly did not ask who THEY might be) and a trio of rather hard-bitten RINS officers had us go over our story again and again till they seemed to be satisfied. Satisfied with us, that is; we could tell they were distinctly unhappy with the rest of the situation.

Oh dear. I should have known we were in hot water when Miss Devinski and Miss Blande came over to Moon Island along with our matron Mrs. Oelabe. Miss Devinski rather icily explained that we were not meeting at Songmark until she had decided if we were ever coming back there.  She first motioned Mrs. Oelabe forward, who asked us seriously if there was anything we wanted to tell her. I reassured her that although we both still had a definite scent of blood on our fur it was not our own, apart from a few nicks and scratches we had already treated. I inquired after Mr. Kovic, and was reassured that he had survived to get to the Casino Island hospital and a transfusion.  Rather grudgingly, Mrs. Oelabe commented that the hospital staff had praised my work as a battlefield medic, and she was glad to see that at least one of my classes had not been wasted.  Although we had already told our story to the Rain Island officers it took twice as long to tell it again to our tutors, who not only wanted to know the facts of what we did but also the reasons. I had to admit that the way they assessed things, it looked rather shaky putting ourselves up against those odds with those sorts of consequences for losing. Miss D asked snappishly if two years of Songmark had been wasted on us thinking we could go and do that sort of thing – to which Molly replied evenly that two years of Songmark had equipped us to do it and win. I am very glad she kept her temper; it is hard to argue with success but our Tutors are very skilled at finding fault with us.  Of course, no armies train to lose but in every battle at least one of them does - which was not the sort of point I wanted to remind anybody of at the time. Our tutors then sent us out and then called us in separately to grill us more severely one after another – by the end of the morning it reached the stage of being asked if I thought there was any point in my wasting my Father’s money keeping me at Songmark. But having come through an experience like yesterday I was in no mood to buckle under. I acknowledged that if they wanted to send such a message to the world they had the right to do so – but for my family’s sake I wanted a written explanation that I had been dismissed for putting my own life in peril to help a friend in need. If they throw me out for that I do not think they would get another properly brought-up student from our Empire ever again, and have to make do with folk such as Beryl. Whatever I have learned at Songmark, I have not un-learned how to stick up for my friends, and hope I never do.

Miss Blande asked if I knew what the freighter was carrying and for who. I could look her in the eye and truthfully tell her that I had not looked, and had not asked.  We were both sent out of the room for half an hour. The thing was, I felt very different from contemplating essentially the same fate at Easter – and not just because Molly would probably be joining me in exile. Sitting there, I could have wished we had stayed out on the island another day before being rescued; the grilling could hardly have been worse and at least we would have had more time to work on our story. As it is, we did not tell them everything or Mrs. Oelabe would have done more than just ask about our health. My main worry was what to tell Jirry – I know he had no objections to things such as my explorations and taking part in the festival on Orpington Island, but most people seem to have such a down on Lars.

At last the door opened and we were waved silently in. I had resigned myself to a career of Island life when Miss D curtly told us we had managed to hang on to our courses by a thin whisker.  I could tell Molly was about to make some wise-crack about that, but a sharp elbow is a convincing a move in the right place as the Cheltenham Death Grip proves in certain other circumstances. I had never expected to use that hold, and it was rather chilling to reflect that sometimes Beryl does tell the unvarnished truth.

Actually, she did say one rather odd thing – that if we insisted on pulling this sort of stunt, we should put our energies to some better use – and warned us that travel was in our horoscopes for the near future. Very odd, as I hardly thought she would be the type for star-gazing apart from our timetabled celestial navigation.

As we followed them out and back to Songmark, on the water taxi Miss Blande winked at us and whispered that we would either graduate with an “A” or an “F” but nothing in between.  Thinking about it, it might be that our Tutors would even rather have us sent home in disgrace than be caught by Moro pirates and come to the sort of none-too-rapid end we have heard about.  Quite a reunion! Helen and Maria were waiting for us on the dockside; with rather a start we realised it was still only Saturday and we had been gone little more than twenty-four hours. On the way in we noticed our Sea Osprey tied up on its regular berth, so evidently the freighter made it into these waters at least as far as being able to get a ferry pilot to return it here. We looked around the Casino Island docks as we went past, but saw no sign of the freighter. It is hardly the sort of thing one can just park out of the way, after all.

Molly was rather subdued, and whispered that she had worked out what the cargo was – but it made no sense to her. The fuzes and gaine charges she had sunk everything in sight with were definitely for battleship shells, twelve inch calibre or probably even larger. But as “Jane’s Naval Review” tells us, one needs at least an eighty tonne gun to fire them, and those are made in only about half a dozen steelworks in the world, taking at least a year of specialised heavy engineering per barrel. I know that back home, even in Sheffield there are just two factories qualified for the Navy and battleships order them before even laying the keels in the boatyards. The Austro-Hungarians may have some surplus but surely Rain Island cannot be getting hold of any, as there are strict world Treaties controlling such things that the League of Nations enforces. They are rather conspicuous after all, and testing can hardly be kept quiet. So – they are bringing in ammunition that could worry any ship afloat, but have no way of firing it!
 
* (Editor’s Note: this is evidently “Lutefisk”, a Norwegian dish that Amelia actually describes quite accurately – as does Molly. The Editor knows whereof he speaks.)

Sunday May 31st , 1936

After yesterday’s adventures, a nice relaxing day was in order. Unfortunately we do not give the orders around here, and despite it being Sunday, Molly and I were assigned to escort the first-years who need such to Casino Island church services. Molly of course does not attend and I hardly felt like leaving her alone on Casino Island for two hours while I went in to see what the Reverend Bingham is sermonising. I fear I have rather dropped out of that style of Church-going, having been introduced to the Spontoonie variant.

Actually it was as well that we waited outside in the nearest café, as Mr. Sapohatan appeared in his usual inconspicuous way and greeted us as if we had done nothing out of the ordinary. For us, I fear that is what our Tutors complain about. I know better by now than to ask him anything; he will tell us what he wants us to know whenever he feels ready.  Molly has no such caution and eagerly enquired about Lars, asking if he had got into trouble with the authorities. Mr. Sapohatan’s tail twitched in what might have been irritation, and admitted that some particular authorities had to be placated, but in general Lars had the done the islands a great service – though for various reasons he would be home on Krupmark for awhile (“until the heat’s off,” as Molly commented sagely.)

He congratulated us quietly, and cautioned us that we should never assume that everything Lars does is for the National Interest, as he is an entirely independent businessman. In fact, one of the reasons he is willing to go to such lengths for Spontoon is to buy himself some leeway with the Authorities. Many folk think he is “mad, bad and dangerous to know” – but I am sure he is not mad, and Molly will believe nothing bad about him. As for dangerous to know, I must confess that every time we cross paths, dire peril is never far off. But we are training to be Adventuresses, and can hardly complain about that sort of thing.

Anyway, he enquired if we had any plans for the holiday, as otherwise he had some ideas that we might find interesting. I know by now what “interesting” means around here. He seems to have heard about our rather icy reception at Songmark yesterday, as he mentioned some other projects had come up which in other circumstances we could have started on right away – and we should not worry too much about travelling expenses.

Though I should not be too surprised, he pulled out a photograph from his pocket and compared it to me – and commented that although they might have difficulty with issuing a British citizen with a local passport, a half-Siamese girl might not have such problems. Of course, I had passed through Customs both ways at Easter and it was hardly amazing that someone had spotted me behind the dyed fur. It was something new to see his ears and tail perk up in surprise when I admitted that Kim-Anh already has one – but she could use a birth certificate and supporting documents suitable for a dancer or other respectable Macao resident working here for the Season.  I think this might be the first time we have seen a certain ferret impressed. He rose, bowed politely and said he would see what could be arranged. He turned and added that if we heard news of a shipwreck in the near future, we need not be too concerned – and neither would Lloyds of London, as there was nothing insured on it. Very odd.

Molly finds shepherding our juniors rather a chore, especially as on Sundays she has other places she would prefer to be. We were reminded rather directly when we returned to the water-taxi dock to see a rather contented and unsteady Beryl obviously returning from the Temple of Continual Reward, the only religion where they seem to have communion cocktails. Beryl has been saying farewell to her friend Mr. Van Hoogstraaten who is heading out next week with the Olympic rowing team; evidently he is no believer in saving his energies for the competition, as Beryl dreamily commented he would need the whole eight-day trip to Europe to rest up.  Everyone else seems to be back, except for Adele Beasley who vanished quite legitimately on her weekend pass on Friday evening – rather odd, as I hardly thought she had anywhere round here to go. I hope she did not go wandering the islands on her own, as if there is a patch of quicksand a yard square she will be the one to find it – I just hope she can find help to get out of any trouble she finds herself in.

Helen was back before us, having had a fine time on South Island and mercifully free of first-years except for Saffina. She was very interested in hearing what Mr. Sapohatan had to say, and is only worried that any adventures he has planned might be on the rolling wave (her roiling stomach does not improve with practice as I hoped it would.) As long as it is in the air or on dry land she has her paw up to volunteer for it.

We also got the chore of doing the final snout count before curfew, to check everyone is actually in. For a minute we thought we were two short – then Shin and Adele turned up just as we were about to lock the gates for the night and report them (our third-years would be called out for something that serious, and woe betide anyone who distracts them from their final revision!) Shin mentioned being delayed getting back from home by headwinds – rather odd, as I would hardly have thought those two would be into sailing round South Island, and first-years are banned from term-time unofficial flying. But all’s well that ends well.


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